On the battlefield, you are unstoppable. Feared. Respected. An alpha among alphas. You give orders, and they obey. You stand your ground, and they fall in line.

But here?

Alone, behind this door?

You are a trembling, obedient wreck-

And Ghost is your Master.

—

Soap and Gaz walk through the dim barracks, their conversation easy - until-

A sound.

A choked, desperate moan.

They freeze.

Another follows - slick, wet, obscene.

Their brows knit. Lips part.

Then-

“Please, Master-”

Soap stiffens. Gaz’s stomach drops.

The cracked-open door spills a sliver of light.

They shouldn’t look.

But then Ghost’s low, commanding voice rumbles-

“Color, pet.”

And they do.

Through the gap, they see-

You.

Bare, sprawled on Ghost’s bed, thighs trembling as his gloved fingers pump into you - slow, torturous.

He’s still fully clothed, watching you squirm, one hand buried inside you, the other gripping your throat - not tight, just enough.

His mask stays on, but his eyes devour every tremor, every whimper.

“So greedy.” His voice is a dark tease. “You beg, then cry when I give it to you.”

A wrecked sob rips from your throat as his fingers curl just right.

Soap grips the wall. Gaz swears under his breath.

They shouldn’t be here.

But then-

“You wanna come, pet?”

You nod frantically, tears welling.

Ghost tsks. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes, Master - please-"

A sharp slap to your thigh.

“You know better.” His fingers slow - agonizingly so - denying you, owning you.

You let out a wrecked sob.

“Pathetic little thing.” He chuckles darkly. “I could keep you like this all night. Just a mess on my fingers, crying for me.”

Soap nearly stumbles. Gaz looks ready to evaporate.

Then - Ghost stills.

His head tilts. Grip tightens.

“We have company.”

Air turns thick.

Your pleasure-drunk mind lags.

Then - your head turns.

Your half-lidded eyes flicker to the door-

And when you see them-

Your breath catches. You go pale.